City of Angels
by Kinthinia
Summary: Three months ago, Clint and Bucky escaped from Hydra's clutches. When Bucky falls ill, young Clint Barton is determined to do whatever it takes to ensure his friend's survival and keep them from Hydra. Even if this means turning himself in to the police. However, Clint never foresaw Phil or SHIELD becoming involved. A/B/O AU. Elements of CA:TWS.
1. Everyone Wants to Rule the World

"I –I used to know him," Bucky stuttered out, his eyes on the newspaper spread out above him.

Clint glanced up at the soggy newspaper, at the golden-haired hero pasted to the front of it. A droplet of rain saturated through the paragraph detailing the captain's heroics. "Yeah?" he asked, glancing at Bucky disbelievingly. He wasn't doing so great.

Bucky's dark hair was damp and pasted to his sweaty forehead. He was sitting in their makeshift shelter, his arms wrapped around his legs as he shivered and trembled with the force of the fever that was eating him whole. The ratty hoodie he was bundled in did nothing to protect against the damp chill that was seeping through their cardboard hideout. It had been Clint's but it was two sizes to big for him and they both knew Bucky needed it more.

"Went to school with him," Bucky murmured deliriously. "Used t'call him Stevie." He laughed a little at that, a sharp broken sound before he broke off coughing.

Clint winced, hovering uncertainly. "Yeah?" he asked, hating the way his voice warbled on that one word. He didn't know what else to say.

"Mm yeah. Was just a little guy," Bucky slurred, gesturing with his right arm. "Tiny thing. Used to get beat up all the time."

Clint looked up at the picture. The guy there was a giant beefcake. No way was he the kind of guy to get into fights left and right, let alone lose them. The Purple Heart he was being presented seemed to indicate that Clint's assessment was right. Some hotshot, top of the world guy like Steve Rogers? No way he came from downtrodden little Brooklyn. He glanced back at Bucky nervously. Rogers probably just reminded him of his friend and he had the names mixed up.

"Yeah," Clint commented softly, watching Bucky helplessly.

He smiled wanly, his complexion a terrifying paleness. "I used to – to fight for him. Clean up his messes. He hated it." Bucky laughed again, a weak chuckle that was over before it really began. Too much like Bucky's own life. "Used to say he coulda handled it. He was always walking 'round bruised. Never told me who did it, but I'd find the guys. Not fair, pickin' on a guy like Stevie." He sighed quietly at that, coughing weakly as he shuddered, drawing up tighter against himself. His eyes slid shut and he was out cold once again.

Clint scrubbed a hand over his eyes. What was he supposed to do? A week ago Bucky came down hard and fast with a cold that wouldn't go away. Neither of them could afford to be sick. Clint had bought what he could in the beginning; lozenges and zinc and whatever he could find that was loaded up with vitamin c. None of it helped. Bucky was going to die at this rate. Going back to Hydra wasn't an option. They'd risked their lives to get out of there –the thought alone sent a shiver through Clint that had nothing to do with the weather. It wasn't like he could jut use a payphone, report Bucky as was –nobody would come. They were two homeless kids. Nobody cared. Clint wasn't sick but he didn't want to risk moving Bucky. His arm still wasn't healed up yet and if he took him to a hospital they'd start asking questions. Questions Clint wouldn't be able to answer. And then they'd call the police and he'd be hauled off for questioning. Hydra would hear about it, and they would come and take back their assets.

The word alone had Clint crawling out of the makeshift shelter, glancing back at Bucky worriedly. He was too pale, trembling and shaking, muttering under his breath as his fever dreams devoured whatever was left of his consciousness. Fuck. He couldn't let him die. There was a pharmacy just a few blocks away. Clint had tried to swipe some Tylenol yesterday but security found him out and let him go with a warning. Clint could play the first time offense card exceedingly well. He shuffled anxiously, glancing back at Bucky worriedly. If he didn't get something now, Bucky would probably die. Hopefully there would be a different security guard this time.

Clint hunched his shoulders and set off across the street, heading to where he knew the pharmacy was located. He didn't want to waste any time by trying to find a different store; time was something neither he nor Bucky had much in excess of. Clint peeked inside the store, casually entering it as he canned for the security guard. He definitely didn't see the one who had been here the day before. A quick glance at the clerk showed that Clint had caught a lucky break for once. They were both new; didn't even give him a second glance. Clint sneezed, keeping his head down as he wandered down the aisle to the Tylenol. He skimmed over the symptoms they relieved, grabbing the first bottle that promised to relieve fevers and slid it into his sleeve as he wandered down the aisle again. He paused at the tissues, made a pained face at the price as he brought his hand up to wipe at his nose.

His gaze lingered on the suppression bottle next to the tissues. It cost a fortune and anyone needing them required a doctor's note. Hydra used to handle all of that. But in less than a month, the last shot he and Bucky had would wear off. Everyone would know. They didn't have a plan about what they would do then, but they would deal. Clint sighed again, a little wistfully as he turned towards the door. His eyes widening in shock, he quickly turned back to examining the display in front of him as he clutched the bottle of medicine in his head. Behind him, the door swung open, the welcome bell jingling merrily as the officer stepped inside. The guy wasn't wearing a uniform and the car parked outside was nondescript but it was obvious with how the guy walked and carried himself that he was an officer.

Shit. Clint thumbed the bottle of pills in his hand anxiously. It wouldn't be the first time he had stolen something and it probably wouldn't be the last but he really didn't want to get law enforcement involved. He meandered around the store, eventually finding himself looking at the bottle of suppressants again. Could he be any more obvious? From the corner of his eye he saw movement, watched as the nondescript officer settled in next to him, picking up a bottle of cough syrup.

"Waiting for the doctor's approval?" the officer asked him kindly, brown eyes twinkling. "I remember what that was like. I used to stare the bottles, think how differently life would be if only I could get one. It took me a few months after that before I got the prescription and could stop staring at these things like they held the weight of the world in them." He gave a chuckle, picking up the bottle in his hand.

Clint smiled, well-practiced with keeping his anxiety under control. "Yeah. I just turned twenty-one. Could finally get that appointment." It was a lie. Clint was barely twenty and Bucky was just twenty-four. No doctor would even take Bucky as a patient and without proper employment papers; they wouldn't accept whatever flimsy or creative excuse he gave them.

The officer nodded, smiling at Clint sympathetically. "My daughter's down with the flu right now," he sighed. "My wife sent me to get some cough syrup," he waggled the other bottle at that. "You should dress more warmly, kid. With this kind of weather?" The guy shook his head. "Flu's real bad this year."

"I know," Clint said quietly, thinking of how quickly Bucky had deteriorated. He felt the bottle in his hand, keeping his hand cupping it securely. Soon, he could help.

The officer nodded before he stepped up to the counter, paying for the bottle of cough medicine and the suppressants. He walked back towards Clint, pausing for a moment before winking cheekily and handing over the bottle of suppressants.

"I remember what it was like," the officer whispered. "They make a big deal out of it, but it's… whatever side effects you might feel, it's always worth it." He smiled gently, tipping his hand to Clint as he left the store.

The clerks didn't notice anything. Clint pocketed the bottle as well and waited until the officer had driven away before he walked out of the store. The alarm went off and Clint took off at a run. He circled the block, leading a trail in the opposite direction of Bucky in case anyone was following before he went the long way around to get back to his friend. Bucky had slid down against the cement wall, was lying in a writhing bundle as he shivered and whimpered pleadingly under his breath.

Clint grabbed out the bottle of fever medication, opening it with shaky hands as he took two pills out and set the bottle aside. "Bucky," he said, hoping it would get him a reaction.

Bucky jerked back, closer towards the wall. "No," he moaned sickly, shoving his hand in Clint's direction. "No." He wasn't awake.

"Bucky," Clint repeated, pleadingly. "C'mon it'll make you feel better."

"No," he whimpered, trying to hide his face against his shoulder.

Bucky knew what was going to happen next as much as Clint did. They'd been drugged before on multiple occasions for Hydra when they screwed something up. Tied down with leather restraints on what always felt like an operating table, a bright fluorescent light above them, pills were shoved down their throats. If they didn't give in and take them or tried to fight, they had their noses plugged and were forced to take the pills anyway. Clint tried to force a pill in his mouth, but Bucky kept his lips and teeth clenched together. With a heavy heart, fearing for his life, Clint pinched the end of Bucky's nose cutting off his supply of air. And waited. When he opened his mouth in a gasp, a strangled wail on his lips, Clint shoved the pills into his mouth and pressed his hand over Bucky's lips. Bucky flailed and struggled, his one arm slamming into the side of Clint's face. It was almost enough to knock Clint's grip aside as he waited for Bucky to swallow, disgust welling up inside of him as Bucky fought him.

"It's just me," Clint pleaded, keeping his hand over Bucky's mouth. "You're safe Bucky. Please. Swallow. You're sick and you need to get better."

Whether it was because Bucky had expended too much energy fighting or because he actually heard Clint, Clint would never know. But he would always be grateful for the way that Bucky's body went slack as he swallowed the pills down. Clint winced, pulling away from Bucky hastily. At least Hydra had always had water handy. It got easier to just not fight them, to take the water and the pills whatever the unknown drugs would do. Just because it got easier didn't mean that Clint always did the sensible thing. Sometimes he had to fight, because he could. He knew that Bucky had felt the same, had often done the same. Clint grabbed the two bottles of pills, fastening the lid back onto the Tylenol.

He scanned the instructions; concentrating as he picked over the directions word by word until he could figure out how often Bucky would have to take the pills. Four hours before he could have another. Clint swallowed, setting the Tylenol down next to Bucky. He reached outside, swiping his finger along the wet grit of the asphalt. On the interior cardboard he left his coded message; he was going out for a bit but that if it was dark outside when Bucky woke up, he would have to take another two pills. There definitely wasn't an if about Bucky waking up. Clint wiped his finger dry on his pants –there was no way any part of him would be clean or could be clean after all of this. He set the back of his hand over Bucky's forehead, wincing at the heat he could feel radiating off him.

There was no guarantee that the pills would work. Bucky could very easily still need a doctor. And there were plenty of black-market doctors willing to help out when needed, the kind of doctor who wouldn't ask questions so long as there was money to pay. Clint paused, looking back at Bucky. Clint had no one else in his life and he wasn't sure he could live knowing he let Bucky die when there was something he could do about it. Grabbing the suppressants, Clint left the makeshift shelter that was mostly just a mess of soggy cardboard at this point. The ragged tarp over Bucky's half would keep him safe, but Clint wasn't sure how long the structure would remain standing at this rate. Clint headed down the narrow back alleys and to the storage spot he and Bucky had made. He glanced around carefully before he lifted the stones out of place.

Clint grabbed the handgun, slipping the pills into its place before replacing the stones and concealing the weapon. He didn't exactly have a coat, but it fit underneath his shirt well enough. Buried under the street sign for Carriage Street and Bryant Crescent, the gun was dry and safe. They'd taken it from the last Hydra agent who had found them before leaving his body for the officials to find. No one would ever think to question a couple of street kids. Not in this day and age. Too many young kids would just go missing, stolen off the streets or out of backyards and family lawns. As far as Clint had been able to learn, Bucky was one of those kids. Clint had been a different kind of kid. He wasn't kidnapped against his will and handed off. No, Clint had been sold.

Sometimes, a couple of years later, the kids would resurface. The ones who weren't desirable. The Betas, usually. Sometimes Alphas. Omegas would never be seen again. Clint never asked Bucky why he didn't go home; in return, Bucky never asked why Clint didn't try to find his brother. They'd spent too many years together to not know details of the others' life. Clint was sold when he was fourteen to Hydra, on the verge of his fifteenth birthday. Bucky had been stolen from the streets as near as Clint could figure when Bucky was thirteen. They both avoided talking about home, once Clint stopped hoping that Barney would show up to save him. It was too late for that. Clint had missed his chance and Barney had missed his, probably never even knew that it had come and gone. Better to let sleeping dogs lie.

So they had been eking out a miserable life on the streets that was better than anything they'd ever had before. Well, it wasn't better than the circus exactly. And Clint doubted it was better than Bucky's home. But their memories of Hydra were more powerful and prominent and neither of them wanted to endanger anyone else by association. Clint swallowed tightly, feeling the weight of the gun press against the small of his back. He already had too much blood on his hands. The stains would never come off. Bucky no doubt felt the same. Two blood-stained, combat trained Omegas would never make a presentable or handsome partner. Omegas were delicate, polite and mild mannered. Clint was all muscle and scar tissue, a ticking time bomb of issues ready to go off at any second; Bucky was an even bigger mess of scar tissue, a missing arm and he frequently vanished entirely. Oh, he was there physically. But sometimes the parts of him that made up _Bucky_ just seemed to scatter entirely to the four corners. A couple of hours, sometimes days later, he would come back to himself with vague memories.

Clint wandered the streets, asking the hard questions until he had a name. The clinic wasn't that far away from where their makeshift shelter was located. It was disguised as an herb shop but once Clint set foot inside he could already tell that it was clinical and better run than some of the questionable places he'd been to before.

"How much for an examination?" he asked gruffly, watching the secretary startle into action.

"Two hundred," she answered, smoothly.

Clint hid his grimace at the figure. "My friend, he's… he's sick."

"Two hundred," she repeated, her voice hard as steel. "Prescription costs vary. If he's got that flu that's been going around, the medication will run at about one hundred and fifty dollars or more." She paused, her grey eyes giving Clint an unimpressed once over. "If we have to keep quiet about anything, there's a thirty dollar fee for that."

Clint blinked and opened his mouth to argue.

"Can't pay?" she interrupted before he could even begin. "Then get out."

Three hundred and eighty dollars wasn't a bad price, really. Clint had been expecting worse. Biting his lip, he left the clinic and headed to the nearest bank. It wouldn't be his first time robbing a bank –it would be his first time attempting to do it without any back up and without any kind of a plan. Convenience stores didn't keep that kind of cash in a till and they were jumpier than bank clerks. Convenience clerks got shot pretty commonly; bank tellers not so much. Clint paused as he surveyed the bank, feeling the weight of the gun. Cameras everywhere. It didn't really matter if he got caught so long as he could get out of police custody before Hydra showed up.

Clint walked into the bank, grateful to see it was deserted except for a couple of tellers, two customers and the security guards. They were clearly up to date on their training though because from the corner of his eye he could see them advancing towards him. Clint pulled out the handgun, flipped the safety off and fired two shots without looking. They were both non-lethal. The first security guard went down with a pained cry, the bullet clean through his right hand. He wasn't going to be able to draw his gun in that condition. The second bullet went through the other security guard's left hand. He dropped with a pained cry, fumbling for his gun with his right hand before giving it up.

Clint walked to the teller, leveling the gun at her. "Four hundred dollars," he demanded roughly. "Now."

She squeaked, fumbling nervously as she counted the cash out, her eyes wide. Clint snatched the cash from her, wincing as he heard a police car pull up. He ran for the doors, kicking the security guard's gun from his weak grasp as he raced outside. Banks had silent buttons to call the police; he wasn't interested in shooting any more innocents. He'd done more than enough of that for one lifetime. Clint jumped across the nearest car to him, firing a shot at the police cruiser's back tire as he kept running. Hopefully it would slow the police down long enough. Clint cut through the short cuts, dropping the gun into a dumpster on his way by.

He wasn't going to get away from this, that much was obvious. He skidded to a stop, listening. There was only the distant sound of sirens. Grateful, he rushed back to his makeshift shelter where Bucky was still curled up. They'd been here for three months, maneuvering through the maze of alleys and side streets –Clint would have been surprised if someone had found and caught up to him. Impressed even. This was definitely the hardest part though. Clint helped Bucky to his feet, leaving the Tylenol behind with a pang of regret. It had done nothing for Bucky, certainly nothing noticeable. Bucky wavered on his feet and Clint hurried put his arm around his shoulders, leading him to the clinic.

He froze every time there was the sound of a siren, however close it was. They would have his picture going around soon. There was never enough time. He glanced at Bucky, wincing. Bucky's complexion seemed deathly white and there was a sheen of sweat across his face. Every few steps he would groan and cough weakly. Clint was half-carrying him and he doubted that when Bucky woke up that he would remember a single thing about this day. Clint glanced at the shadows flickering in as the sun slipped behind a cloud, minutes until sunset.

It was early evening by the time Clint got Bucky to the clinic, handing over a hundred of it to the secretary as the doctor took Bucky into a back room. Clint hovered nearby anxiously. He alternated between pacing the length of the available room and drumming his fingers against his arm. It felt like forever before the doctor was stepping out of the room.

"He has the flu. You're lucky you got him here when you did," he said, sternly. "There's no way he can go home. Wherever that is," he snorted derisively.

Clint pinched his lips together to keep himself from punching the guy in the face. "Is he gonna be alright?" he demanded.

The doctor eyed him. "You have the money for the drugs? I can treat him here. It's a hundred and fifty."

Clint nodded, pulling out the cash and handing it to him. He ignored the way the doctor only eyed him more suspiciously. "Look just… help him get better. And don't tell anyone anything," he added, shoving the last of his money towards the doctor.

It was the best that Clint could do to try and ensure that Bucky would be okay. The doctor nodded and took the money, counting through it thoroughly. "I won't say a word. He's good to stay here."

Clint nodded, feeling the exhaustion of the last week catch up to him. Well. Bucky would be okay. That's what mattered, really. Clint turned and left the clinic, walking down to the police station. He half expected that any second there was going to be a police car stopping and pulling him over. But no one did. Turning himself in was the last thing he wanted to do, but he'd already seen three media stations covering his unusual bank robbery. He wouldn't be able to get out of here and he wouldn't be able to do anything to help Bucky. Hydra knew he was here in the city, knew he was wanted by police.

He couldn't afford to lead them to Bucky. Clint was in good enough physical shape to stand up against whatever they threw his way. Bucky was not. If they caught Bucky now, he would probably die. Not from whatever they did to him, but because he couldn't stand to go back there again. Clint wasn't looking forward to it either, really. He walked into the police station, heard the way their mouths dropped open in shock and Clint dropped to his knees obediently, hands behind his head.

If he could keep Hydra busy, just for a while, he could keep Bucky safe. He zoned out, allowing the officers to order him about as he went compliantly. They fingerprinted him but there was no match. They took his picture. Still, no matches came up. They asked for his name and Clint knew better than to give it to them. If they wanted something from him, they wouldn't just hand him over to Hydra. He hoped.

It wasn't a surprise when they led him downstairs, marched him past the cells and down into the basement. They cuffed him up and left him hanging. It was nothing Clint wasn't used to. It used to be this was something reserved specifically for Omegas. Omegas were just property; they were the ideal baby bearer of the species. But with the Omega Rights fighting and winning court rights over the years, more and more people fell in line with the law. For the police, it meant that they could interrogate anyone they wanted like this. They still had certain laws to protect the prisoners, such as the police requiring a certain amount of evidence and having to file charges within the specified time limits.

Many years before Clint was even born, there was an attack. It was an airborne virus and it started in a jail cell in the middle of the United States. It wiped out something like seventy-five to eight percent of the global population. No one was ever really sure on the count. Those who survived the virus were altered. There were still two genders but each gender had an orientation, as Clint understood it. Alpha, Beta and Omega. Alphas were designed to impregnate and Omegas were designed to birth children. Betas however were still more closely related to the human species before it had been altered. In order to reproduce, it had to be a Beta male and a Beta female. During the times where Omegas and Alphas were incapacitated, Betas had to ensure the structures in the world were evolving and working to ensure population recovery.

These days, Betas still outnumbered the Alphas and Omegas. Some scientists theorized that once the population had stabilized, Betas would make up about eighty percent of society while Alpha and Omega genetics became recessive again. Over population would not help the country. As it stood with a volatile population and the police being blamed for the virus in the first place, the justice system had adapted to give the police certain freedoms. However in order to attempt to curb their propensity for violence, cameras were installed in every room and when police were patrolling they were expected to carry their cameras with them.

Clint glanced at the camera in the room, relieved to see it was uncovered. A dumb thing to be relieved about, but. He was, nonetheless. Habit really, of being in too many places that either didn't have cameras or always had them covered. There were fines for cameras placed so that the viewer couldn't see or when something blocked the vision, but the sound systems usually worked so the fines were smaller. And there was less that was done. Every Hydra facility Clint had ever been in lacked proper recording devices. Nothing worked or it simply wasn't there. Clint learned first hand why they weren't there. So it was a relief to see a camera.

Up until they brought the interrogator in. It had been several hours since they cuffed him up because he couldn't feel his arms anymore, and the pins and needles had long since come and gone. The interrogator didn't even try to go for subtle, tossing his jacket over the camera, rolling his sleeves up. He grinned wickedly, turning his wrist just enough that Clint could see the tattoo on the man's forearm.

He was Hydra.

Phil

S.H.I.E.L.D. was first created as an offshoot, grassroots Omega Rights organization. They provided training in combat related specializations for anyone regardless of orientation and gender. But problems started to arise when other governmental organizations refused to take their trained Omegas and they banded together and changed S.H.I.E.L.D. until it was a force to be reckoned with. Under Director Fury's command, S.H.I.E.L.D. had more influence than even the CIA and the FBI. They were privy to everything going on in the country. Phil was proud to serve the organization; he was in charge of their Omega Rights section –he trained many of the Omegas and brought them out on foreign field assignments to preserve and protect Omegas in other countries. Places like Russia where they were still actively using Breeding Facilities; kidnapping Omegas off the street and locking them up for Alphas to enjoy.

Phil did honest, good work. He wasn't unfamiliar with the murky waters that STRIKE teams often got mixed up in as he had been put in charge of an op or two not to mention the few he had participated in as a younger man. But, if anyone were to ask Phil what he preferred, it was definitely training and working with Omegas. So many of them came to S.H.I.E.L.D. as their final resort or were recruited when they were on death row. It was Phil's job to train them, teach them how to make good use of their lives. Prove to them that Omegas were just as capable as any knot-headed Alpha. Phil liked being able to bring out the best of their skills and abilities. It was worth being proud of, seeing these terrified, traumatized men and women grow into confident and capable agents.

And it wasn't to say that there were no drop outs or students who didn't learn as much as Phil would have liked them to. Same as any of the other handlers at S.H.I.E.L.D. Maria took care of the Alphas –she wasn't about to let any Alpha order her around and she wasn't going to let any Alpha order her into submission. Part of the requirements to being a handler required spending a portion of time with the new agents so they could be sure to assemble functioning teams. Therefore they had bi-weekly schedules throughout the levels of S.H.I.E.L.D. so senior agents like Phil and Maria could make time to educate and instruct new agents while continuing to work with their established teams.

Which was to say that when Phil got home, he wasn't surprised his phone started ringing as soon as he set foot in the door. Really, everything considered, it was pretty expected. It was habit for Phil to turn the radio on and the only thing anyone was interested in talking about was the Omega bank robber who shot two guards without looking and stole exactly four hundred dollars and later handed himself into the police. Two days after the fact and it was still all the newscasters could talk about, repeating the footage, as though someone might spontaneously appear with information. No one had.

"Coulson," he answered.

"Have you seen the footage?" came Fury's crisp reply. "I want him with S.H.I.E.L.D."

"He's a criminal," Phil pointed out casually. "Most of the new recruits will recognize him. Provided he's even willing."

"He robbed a bank for four hundred dollars," Fury countered. "He'll do it for the money. And if he won't, you'll find a reason for him. Recruit him, Agent." The line went dead.

Phil sighed very quietly and turned on his television, flicking to the local news station. Sure enough, there was the footage. Somehow, and Phil had a very strong feeling about this, he was pretty sure the Omega hadn't stolen exactly four hundred dollars because he needed the money. If he had, he would no doubt have done it sooner. Watching the way the young man moved, determinedly and with his eyes on the clerk, Phil had no doubt the Omega in question could have robbed the place without drawing needless attention to himself. His shooting _was_ quite remarkable though. Two bullets fired and the man didn't even break stride or turn his head to see and each bullet had gone clean through the guards' hands. The Omega didn't even look phased by the violence. If anything, he looked almost resigned to it. Phil couldn't say what left the impression except that there was something to the Omega's eyes.

Phil exhaled softly, rubbing a hand over his face. They hadn't released the Omega's name over the networks yet. Which most likely meant he was trying to protect his identity for some reason. From his family, possibly. Wanting to preserve his reputation in case of a favorable match with a potential mate. He'd kept his head down, instinctively away from the cameras so his face was already safe from prying eyes. Phil paused, glancing at the man in the looped footage. No, whatever it was that motivated him, it had nothing to do with mates. This Omega wasn't a refined child of high society, a wilting flower waiting for his mate. He was muscular and good with guns, quite possibly combat trained. All traits of which many hotheaded Alphas would ignore or mock.

It was a common attitude. Maria had the pleasure of being the one to beat it out of them when she got them in training. In turn, part of Phil's training was to help Omegas overcome whatever instincts they had in reaction to an Alpha giving an order. An order they couldn't follow in the field. S.H.I.E.L.D. trusted psychologists were always on site when Phil took the new agents into the gymnasium and gave orders they couldn't possibly follow. It was untrue what the media proclaimed, that no Omega could disobey an Alpha's command. None of that was why S.H.I.E.L.D. ran these field tests. They did it because the Omegas they took in and trained had often been in horrific situations and they needed to know their limits. Some of them ended up crying, others had no issues at all. There were only two field tests for this –once by Phil and once by the new recruits' regular handler.

Phil replayed the news story and with an exhausted glance at the clock, dialed the police station that the Omega on the news had turned himself in for. Not for the first time, Phil was grateful for the politic clout S.H.I.E.L.D. now carried. In part it was due mostly to Nick and his sheer stubbornness to make something of the organization as well as to Captain Rogers and Agent Carter. It had made Phil's life a lot easier over the years.

"Metro police station, how may I help you?"

"I would like to meet with the young Omega who turned himself in," Phil said politely.

"I'm sorry, no reporters allowed," came the swift reply.

Phil restrained a sigh. Of course they were going to interrogate the kid. They had probably already started. "I'm not a reporter. I'm an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"O-oh!" she said, her bubbly voice turning nervous. "I-I'm not sure what we can do about that, Agent…?"

"Why don't I come down and meet with him right now? I can show you my badge and proper identification," Phil said smoothly. "Then I can meet the prisoner and we can decide where to go from there."

"We don't have any information on who he is," the clerk whispered, clearly worried about being overheard.

No doubt if she was sharing confidential information without even getting his badge number. Phil stopped himself from sighing, just barely. Everyone knew that the Omega had chosen to withhold that information but it wasn't something that was supposed to be confirmed quite so freely.

"That's quite alright. We've got that covered," Phil lied. They would have it covered, and soon, once he got in to meet with the Omega. Hopefully.

"Well I'll see you shortly Agent…" she trailed off expectantly.

"Very soon," Phil agreed, ending the phone call without giving his name. Standard procedure in case the agency in question had an informant. It wasn't strictly part of the rules given that it was just a local police department, but Phil had always been a bit more of a stringent rule follower than most. When it suited him. He always hated having to meet with a potential recruit after an interrogator had gotten there first.

Most cases, the interrogators weren't needed at all. But the police were jumpy and still trying to make it up to the public, trying to protect them against a repeat incident of what happened almost a hundred years back. Their reputation would never be sterling –everyone blamed the police for their lack of care. Nowadays they were harsh on their uncooperative prisoners, more so than they needed to be. But they were straddling a harsh line of public perception and politic pressures –neither of which everyday officers could cope with efficiently. Interrogators were called in just in case. It didn't make it right, but the public was loathe to condemn their use when it could potentially prevent the annihilation of humanity. Privately, Phil couldn't help but think that there was a better way. For everyone involved.

Phil walked back out into the hallway of his apartment building, locking his room before he went back down the four flights of stairs and to the curb. He hailed a taxi, knowing that his appearance was going to make a big difference in how everything played out with the Omega. A paper-pushing accountant with a classic car probably wouldn't win over the administration. He needed to be bland and unassuming, just another boring bureaucrat trying to please his boss. It worked rather effectively with most people. Harried officials who had paperwork to get done could relate all too easily to the pains Phil was going to be going through.

Phil walked into the station to discover it was full of disorder. The drive here had barely taken twenty minutes. Traffic wasn't a problem especially not at this time of the night. So either something had come up and the officers were fretting about it or his visit had sent them into chaos. Neither of which was reassuring. Phil ambled over to the front desk, spotting the clearly anxious receptionist. Her hair had been thrown back hastily, was tangled with frizz and she jumped every time anyone walked too near her. Phil suppressed the urge to sigh –he had been hoping he would finish up here early enough to get home in time for dinner. That wasn't going to happen.

"I'm here to see the prisoner," Phil said, smiling politely as the receptionist startled. "Phil Coulson, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D." He handed his badge over to her, noting the way her fingers shook as she took it.

"O-of course," she stuttered.

"Can you believe my boss called me in after hours to investigate this kid?" he asked her.

"Everyone's been real curious," she agreed tentatively, her eyes glancing towards the basement door worriedly as she got up. "I'll just show this to the sheriff."

Phil casually surveyed the office, stretching his neck as he mentally marked out the exits and counted police officers. They weren't bustling or anything, but the station wasn't totally deserted either. Could be a good sign, or a bad one. He let his gaze linger on the basement door; the cells would be through there and beneath them would be the prisoner. If everything was running smoothly here, the interrogator's room would be soundproofed and set up with surveillance equipment which included an audio recording of what was going on. Only high level prisoners were subjected to more intense interrogations, the ones who were suspected to have valuable information. Those interrogations often involved no cameras or disabled audio recordings.

The receptionist returned with another nervous smile. "Looks like everything checked out. You're free to go see him," she said, gesturing to the cell door.

Keeping his suspicions to himself, Phil entered into the cells. There were drunk tanks and heat tanks, evenly spaced apart. There weren't many locked up, it was pretty quiet. It was no less reassuring to see that the prisoners were being handled appropriately. Every step closer to the interrogator's room sent a corresponding bad feeling surging in Phil's gut. He ignored the prisoners, opening the door and walking down into the dimly lit basement. There was a chill present, the heating have been lowered to increase tension on the Omega.

Phil stopped himself as he rounded the corner. Hanging from the corner, suspended with his hands above his head was a Beta. At least, the pheromones scattered throughout the room screamed Beta and a Beta who had recently been through plenty of trauma. Phil forced himself to swallow, intentionally scuffing his foot against the concrete. The Beta twisted at the sound, snarling, incapable of doing anything.

What confusion there was surrounding his orientation didn't matter. They could sort that out later once he joined up with S.H.I.E.L.D. It wasn't as though they were exclusive to only Alphas or Omegas; there were many Betas. Unlike the army which took only Alphas and MI-6 which was notorious for taking only Omegas.

"You fuck'in touch me again," he spat out, fighting against his restraints. His nuances on words were off but for no discernible reason. His ears were uncovered, unlike his eyes which had been blindfolded.

"I'm not an interrogator," Phil replied, disgusted at the very notion. "I'm Agent Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."

The Beta snorted derisively at that. "Like you're any better."

Phil frowned. "I would say we're certainly more advanced than the interrogator here. Did he _blindfold_ you?"

The Beta scoffed. "What's it look like to you? 'Cuz I gotta say I'm having a hard time seeing it myself."

"I can't imagine," Phil replied dryly. "I'm going to remove it."

The Beta seemed to be about to speak but at Phil's statement, he quieted. Phil undid the knot easily and tossed the blindfold aside with distaste. Most interrogators cleaned up after themselves better than this. A blindfold wasn't outside acceptable parameters. It was part of the atmosphere, of creating suspense and making the prisoner uncomfortable.

"What do _you_ want from me?" the Beta asked, blinking as he adjusted to the low lighting of the dungeon.

"I want to recruit you," Phil answered honestly.

The Beta snorted, loud and echoing in the chamber. "I'm a criminal. You have to know that much. Your Homeland Division ain't gonna want me."

"I'm not from Homeland Security," Phil corrected, just a little wryly. "I'm with S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Same difference," the Beta all but growled, tilting his head up to scowl at Phil. "You don't want me."

"The order my boss gave me disagrees with you."

The Beta tilted his head to the side. "Riiiight," he drawled.

Phil arched a brow. "I'm here on orders. Do you want to stay tied up here for longer or should I bring you back to HQ where you can have a hot meal three times a day and earn pay?"

"You don't want me," the Beta repeated, his voice hollow.

Time for a different tactic, then. "They've been playing the footage for half the week," Phil argued. "You're a good shot, we need someone like you."

The Beta gaped indignantly. "Good –good shot?" He sputtered. "I'm the best shot!"

Phil didn't believe that for a second. "I'll believe that when I see it." Granted, someone who could shoot that accurately without even looking was either lucky or a great shot. But the best? Phil doubted it.

"Get me outta here and I'll prove it," the Beta growled, tugging on his restraints in frustration.

"I'll need your name for that," Phil said gently, drawing his badge out. "I swear I'm a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. But to get you out of here and released into my custody, I need your name."

The Beta looked at Phil distrustfully. "And if I don't?"

Phil didn't bother suppressing his sigh this time. "You'll stay strung up here. The interrogator will come back and he'll continue until you confess or you die. Because in the law's eyes, a man too afraid to give up his own name must have done something truly unforgivable."

If the Beta was surprised by that, he didn't show it. "What if I don't know my name?"

"No one would believe you." Phil stepped back, towards the door. He wasn't sure he could leave the Beta strung up like this, but he was grateful that he didn't have to test and see what would happen if he did leave.

The Beta grunted in exasperation. "Clint Barton," he ground out. "My name is Clint Barton."

Phil smiled. "Thank you. I'll get you down as soon as I can. It might take a bit."

The Beta –Clint –rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'll just hang out here," he retorted caustically. "I don't have anywhere better to be."

Phil definitely did not envy whoever got assigned to the Beta. He nodded briskly. "Good," he said unnecessarily before leisurely walking back up through the holding tanks to the main office.

It seemed like everyone had waiting until he emerged. Because as he stepped through the door, silence greeted him and as he set sights on the unmoving people, everyone flew into action. Officers were practically tripping over their own feet to get out-of-the-way. Which was odd, very odd. The sooner he got out of here with the recruit, the better things would be. Phil walked over to the receptionist who was practically radiating anxiety.

"I need to speak with the sheriff," he said with a polite smile. "The guy down there? He's definitely the one my boss was looking for."

"His office is j-just over there," she stuttered out, gesturing to the only room.

Phil walked over and apparently the receptionist had paged her boss, because the door opened before Phil could even knock and he was invited in.

"So I hear you're the suit sniffing around here," she said bluntly, offering her hand. "Name's Tamara."

"Phil," he replied, shaking her hand. "Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"What do you want with our illustrious bank robber?" She didn't sit down or offer Phil a seat as she leaned back against her desk casually, territorially.

"That's confidential," Phil said, keeping his posture loose and easy despite Tamara's presence. "We've been investigating him for a while."

Tamara scoffed. "He's a homeless Omega hooked on suppressants," she growled. "S.H.I.E.L.D. can't be interested in the likes of him."

Well, that certainly explained why he smelled like a Beta. "We're looking into a cartel," Phil offered. "Trying to figure out where they get their supplies. The guy downstairs? He's a low-level runner, but he's the one making the trips across the border. A bit stubborn but our cells are better suited to get out a confession from him."

Tamara barked a laugh at that. "A bit stubborn? Bastard's been here for days and he wouldn't even give up his name."

Phil smiled patiently. "I've got my orders to take him off your hand. I can call my boss, if you want to clear it with him first."

Tamara waved his offer off. "No, no. Just get the kid out of here. Maybe you guys can smarten him up a bit." She got off her desk, pulling out a key from her desk.

"We'll do our best," Phil agreed, catching the key she tossed to him.

"If I see him on the streets again, I'll be calling you guys up."

"I'll be grateful if you do," Phil assured her.

They exchanged brief farewells, and she handed him his badge back. In turn, Phil handed her his card. If she called, it would get passed to one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. receptionists. Important information would get relayed back to him. Phil returned down to the interrogator's room where Barton was dangling. His eyes were on Phil before he finished getting to the bottom of the stairs. Phil offered him what he hoped was a reassuring smile, before undoing the restraints that bound Barton.

Barton winced, staggering as he landed on his feet, wobbling. For a moment Phil feared he was going to have to steady the other man when Barton seemed to regain his balance.

"Get me outta here," he muttered, pulling away from Phil.


	2. After the Storm

After the Storm

Well, it made a lot more sense now, Clint supposed. Why the interrogator had taken off so quickly and then officers had descended and dressed him in some fashion of appropriateness. To hide the marks from the fancy government agent. Clint snuck a glance at Coulson who was leaning against the opposite door, doing something complicated on his phone. If he had any sense, he'd be telling his boss what a colossal waste of time Clint was going to be. But he needed to get out of that police station; he couldn't risk the Hydra agent coming back. He also couldn't risk letting a repeat of this flu happen with Bucky either. Clint shifted carefully, watching Coulson from the corner of his eye. It was impossible to get comfortable –all the officers had done was cover his wounds up, they hadn't treated them.

No one cared about homeless kids really. It wasn't news. It was however the first time Clint had been in police custody unable to escape. Was it convenience that the Hydra agent had been there or had the man known? He kept his questions pointed, always asking for Clint's name or orientation. Clint had let the latter slip out at some point, he knew but he couldn't pinpoint when. Just that the Hydra agent had thought repetitive use would get the same result again. It hadn't. Clint zoned out at that point, retreating into himself so he gave nothing else away.

Not that giving them his name would have amounted to much. Maybe a birth certificate and a few school records from back when he bounced around between foster homes. Long before he and Barney escaped to join the circus. Hydra had never much cared for his name –in fact, they rarely used it. Bucky was the only person who called him by it, but they still had to be careful. The superiors would have gotten antsy if they knew. Clint was Ronin and for a long time he was partnered with Bucky, back when Bucky was just the Winter Soldier. What would have been more problematic were the fingerprint and DNA tests they wanted to run. Hydra never much cared about how a mission was handled so long as –so long as it got done.

Coulson was a tricky guy; he seemed to sense that Clint wanted to get the hell away from the station and as such, Coulson kept annoyingly close. Clint hadn't managed to get more than a step away from the agent without him noticing, right up until they got into the taxi. As soon as they were in, Coulson pulled out his cell phone and was quickly engrossed in it.

The chills crawling across his body had him fold his arms across his chest in a way that did nothing to ease the pain in his back. The pressure from the car seat against his injuries made it feel like his back was on fire. The next red light or stop sign they hit, Clint was bailing. He'd be fine. He'd had worse. Stealing a little antiseptic and some gauze wasn't difficult; he'd been doing it for years. Neither were stored as securely or obviously as a bottle of fever medication. Clint clenched his teeth; what the hell was Bucky going to think? He'd think Clint had either been caught or abandoned him to the doctor. He wouldn't be entirely wrong on the captured front. Would Bucky even survive the medical treatment or was it too late?

Bucky was going to be fine. They made it in time. The doctor would keep his word, Clint hoped. Clint's fingers twitched –he desperately wanted to have a weapon at hand, just so he felt a little safer. Also it would be handy in case the agent tried to chase him down when he bailed. Clint studied Coulson out of the corner of his eye. Despite the suit that concealed everything and possibly anything, Clint was pretty sure the guy was not all that out of shape. For one, he was a legit government worker and secondly, he didn't really seem like the paper-pusher type.

"Barton," Coulson said, swiping his finger across his phone screen without looking up. "I may have neglected to mention some important facts about your recruitment to S.H.I.E.L.D."

Clint bristled. "Like what?"

"If you try escape, we will make sure you end up before a judge. Given that you're clearly recognizable as the robber, you will end up in jail."

Clint scoffed in disbelief. S.H.I.E.L.D. was every bit as cunning and deceptive as they were said to be. "You're forcing me to join." He shook his head, glancing at Coulson's reflection in the mirror.

"Neither of those guards are going to be able to work again. You've traumatized half the bank tellers and put some local psychologists back into business with this stunt. You can't walk away from this with no punishment. You pass our tests, serve a minimum of three years with us and you're your own man."

"And if I jump out the door at the next stop light?"

"I'll personally chase you down. You wouldn't get far. Your face is plastered across every news outlet in the county."

Clint turned, looking out his window irately. Shit. "Do I get any free time to myself?" he asked bitterly.

"After a few months," Coulson answered. "When we can trust you enough not to run off.

A few months? Watching the city vanish behind them, Clint knew he had missed whatever opportunity he might have made to leave a message for Bucky.

"What about my personal belongings?" he asked, more to be an ass than because he expected Coulson to order them back to Clint's cardboard home.

Coulson blinked in surprise. "Is there anything you need?"

Even if Coulson did take the taxi back to Clint's makeshift home, there was nothing there that Clint could even remotely pretend belonged to him. All he owned were the clothes on his back. He'd burned the robes and tossed the armor he walked out of Hydra with. The police station had confiscated the two knives he carried with him and returned them to Coulson upon Clint's release… Bucky on the other hand was always a little more on edge. He squirreled away knives like dogs buried their bones.

"Yeah," Clint said decisively, squaring his shoulders. The flare of pain up his back was almost too much to conceal, but he managed. He could feel one of the wounds oozing blood.

"Where's your… home?" the agent asked, almost wincing at the indelicate phrasing.

Clint gave his address and the cabbie turned around and drove them back towards the familiar neighborhoods. Clint _was_ surprised when Coulson didn't get out and follow him down the side-streets. Then again, there was still plenty of water and mud scattered about –Coulson probably didn't want to risk his precious leather shoes. Unsurprisingly, his and Bucky's territory hadn't been touched. They'd been pretty clear about what happened to the folks who wandered too near. He rounded the corner, wincing at the sight of the collapsed ruin that was once his home. Nothing but a mess of wrinkled, soggy cardboard now. Clint glanced over his shoulder, even more surprised when he realized Coulson hadn't followed him.

Odd. He pulled out a loose stone, plucking their spare blade from the cramped space. Using his knife, he scratched at the cement wall. He etched out a bow and arrow, a plus sign and the S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem. It would do. At the very least, Bucky could put together the story. Any wandering strangers would just see that a bow and arrow plus an eagle insignia. Not everyone was familiar with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s logo. Clint got back up on his feet, walking back to the taxi. Coulson hadn't even moved. Clint sat down, pulling his seatbelt on, ignoring the white-hot flare of pain as another wound re-opened.

The pain and the familiar weight of a blade in his hand triggered an automatic reaction. He reached over, grabbed Coulson's hand, and pressed the knife harmlessly against the agent's palm. Long ago it had been beaten into Clint to surrender his weapons –it was habit; an instant and unforgiving compulsion that he was quick to obey. Clint swallowed hard against the stinging pain in his back, staring at the blade he had willfully surrendered to Coulson. Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D. weren't unknown to each other. There was no way Coulson wouldn't put it together. It wasn't –it wasn't possible.

"Thank you," Phil said slowly, the tiniest wrinkle of a frown between his brows. "But this is yours. It must be valuable to you."

Clint forced out a laugh, taking the knife back hastily. "Yeah."

He wracked his brain for something else to say but nothing came to mind. Just echoing silence. He was in the presence of someone with higher rank –Clint could not be trusted with projectile weapons or weapons at all. He had to surrender them. He used to fight, used to think it meant something more than a token resistance. In turn, they proceeded to search him when he returned from missions to make certain he was unarmed. Accidental or not, if he was found to be with a potential weapon –whether or not he utilized it –they hauled him in front of an interrogator. Clint got used to it, expecting to be searched the same way that Bucky was accustomed to being muzzled and chained down.

Clint bit his lip, rolling his shoulders roughly as he leaned back against the seat. The familiar rush of agony was more grounding than he wanted to admit. "Didn't want you to freak out or something, if you realized I had it," Clint mumbled out, breathing in deeply against the pain. It wouldn't be long before his blood soaked through the gauze and then through his shirt. Coulson probably didn't care unless he was at risk of ruining some furniture.

Clint stole another glance at the agent, and adjusted his stance. Coulson had to know by now. Interrogators were never kind. Clint doubted they even knew the meaning of the word. Coulson probably didn't care either. Clint was just a tool to be used –point and shoot. His 'handlers' got to sleep at night in their cushy beds while Clint woke up with nightmares, dreaming of the innocents he had cut down to get to the target. Men and women with families –sometimes the kids had even been present. But orders were orders and disobedience never failed to hurt.

"So," Clint said loudly, maybe a little too loudly, "you mentioned something about tests?" Anything to end the heavy silence, to distract Coulson from putting together Clint's connection to Hydra. No harm in trying.

"A standardized physical assessment, field training assessment, shooting assessment and a psych evaluation," Coulson rattled off easily. "Then a few simpler ones to determine any areas that need focus."

"And if I fail?"

Coulson blinked. "If you fail the physical we'll find something for you to do. Field training or shooting fail just means you get to spend extra time working to get your skills up." Clint snorted –as if those were the tests he was worried about. At least at the physical that meant his wounds would be seen to. "If you don't pass the psych evaluation, well, unless you turn out to be a psychopath it won't be a problem. They'll want you in a few sessions to help with things. The others, again, just mean more time studying."

"Then they're not really tests," Clint said, relieved. Tests meant you passed or you failed –failure meant punishment. Clint knew how _that_ worked.

"I suppose not," Coulson said after a pause. "If you're as good as you say, you shouldn't be worrying anyways."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Seriously. I'll blow you away."

Coulson smiled amusedly as the taxi came to a stop in front of a boring office building. Government workers. It did have some sort of modern architectural design to it though, Clint thought as he got out. It was hard to make out the shape in the dark, but he thought the upper floors of the building were different. Also, the entire thing was basically a cylinder. S.H.I.E.L.D. was definitely buddy-buddy with some high ranking government officials.

"I'm going to take you to medical for your physical," Coulson said as he got out of the taxi, adjusting his suit. "And while you're there, I'm going to be running a full background check on you. For your own benefit, is there anything you want to tell me before I find it on my own?"

Clint blinked at him confusedly. He wouldn't find anything. In all honestly, after he was fourteen he had probably disappeared off the map. He doubted Barney bothered to sell him through proper channels considering it was Hydra. It wasn't like there was going to be a certificate for graduation from Hydra's academy of Control-Mongers. In case it wasn't obvious, Clint had been one of the ones being controlled.

"Your name is really Clint Barton?" Clint nodded. Coulson didn't seem surprised by that. "And when I pull your background check am I going to find more criminal records?"

"No," Clint replied carefully. "Not a one."

Certainly not any physical records that S.H.I.E.L.D. could get their hands on so easily. Hydra didn't even keep his name down –they didn't even call him by it. He was just Ronin.

Coulson nodded. "Good. This way, please," he said, heading down a long corridor. "You'll note the painted trims? You're only permitted in areas with blue. If you find yourself in an area with gold trim, I suggest you not because you will be shot on sight and interrogated. Areas with purple trim you will be physically escorted from and put on lock down."

Clint made a face. "You're gonna interrogate me after you shoot me? You guys really need my help."

"I never specified with what, Mr. Barton," Coulson answered, clearly amused as he ushered Clint down a flight of stairs and into a medical room. "Doctor Taylors," Coulson greeted warmly. "Our newest potential recruit."

The woman turned around, smiling affectionately. Her dark eyes lit up, some of the heavier wrinkles around her eyes and lips vanishing entirely with her joy. "Agent Coulson," she said, before turning to Clint. "And who is our newest guest?"

It took Clint an embarrassing long time to realize that she was speaking to him. "Clint!" he blurted. "I'm Clint Barton." It was nice, being able to use his own name again.

"Wherever did Agent Coulson pick you up?" She laughed at her own joke. "Don't worry; you don't have to tell me. I get it. The superspy stuff." She shook her head, black curls bouncing. "This way please." Clint followed her, casting an anxious look over his shoulder only to find that Coulson was gone.

It turned out she had led him to a private, enclosed shower stall. There was clean soap, fluffy towels and what was no doubt hot water. It was tucked away at the end of her small room. Clint scanned the room as he followed her, noting the x-ray machine, the plentiful swabs, thermometers and syringes. Everything looked professional, clean and organized. Dr. Taylors didn't linger more than necessary, pointing out how the door locked and making small talk. However, she did seem to feel almost bad about the lack of windows in the room. No doubt to prevent prisoners like Clint from escaping.

"Wait," she said, reaching towards him. "You're injured!"

Clint froze, slowly turning around to face her, keeping his unprotected back safe from her grasp. "And if I am?" he asked, backing away cautiously.

Dr. Taylors looked almost offended. "I'm not here to hurt you," she said, lifting her hands in surrender. "If you're injured, at least let me treat it first."

Clint shook his head adamantly, slipping into a fighting stance without a second thought.

Doctor Taylors brows drew together and she pursed her lips. "I have to clear you for your physical," she explained haltingly. "I'm a trained physician. S.H.I.E.L.D. trusts my judgments. I can't pass you if I don't even get to examine you."

Clint scowled. "Fine," he snapped, yanking his shirt off roughly. It was too easy to ignore the sting of pain that accompanied the movement. It wasn't like he had another option.

Dr. Taylors was more experienced than he expected. She didn't make a sound of surprise, instead she ushered him out of the shower room and back into the exam room. Unlike his usual experiences with most doctors, she encouraged him to sit where he liked. He perched on a stool, hovering anxiously while Dr. Taylors patiently cleaned the wounds. Clint was surprised that she made no comment about his condition. Honestly, Clint couldn't remember the last time he had hot water to bathe with. Mostly he kept himself presentable by stealing into local store bathrooms and washing his hands and his face. His clothes were in disrepair and he had no illusions about the state of his body odor.

"Interrogator got a little rough," she commented instead, her voice clipped with disapproval.

"Usually are," Clint responded warily.

Dr. Taylors exhaled patiently and finished dressing his wounds. "I've cleaned the area around the welts as best I can. I'll do a little more once you've showered. Take as long as you want." As he got up to head back towards the shower, she shoved a pair of scrubs at him with a small jar balanced on top. "Wear those and pee in the cup."

She shooed him off and Clint followed her directions. Locking the door behind him, he stripped out of his filthy clothes, setting them aside. He turned the shower on without a second glance and peed in the cup. He set it next to the clean scrubs before gratefully stepping under the spray of hot water. It felt better than he would ever admit, to be under hot water, to be able to take a bar of soap and physically scrub the grime and dirt from his body. It was a relief to see the milky brown tendrils vanish down the drain. Part of him felt the need to be quick, to hurry and ignore her orders but it was too easy to relax under the hot water. If he were still capable of it, Clint imagined that he might have lost track of time standing under the shower.

Clint stepped out, his skin bright red with irritation but blissfully clean. The hot water had staved off the worst of the ache in his shoulders, but he was sure he would be feeling it again by tomorrow. He threw a towel around himself, hurriedly drying off before throwing the scrubs on. He glanced back at his filthy clothes as he took the cup back out to the examination room. Dr. Taylors was sitting at her desk, typing on her computer and she waved Clint over without looking up.

"Just on the desk dear," she said, gesturing vaguely.

Clint awkwardly set it down. "My –my clothes-?"

"We'll have someone deal with it," she said, turning to him. "Unless there's something you'd really like to salvage?"

Clint shook his head. Dr. Taylors finished up whatever she was doing on her computer, waved Clint to the side and then she proceeded to get up close and way too personal for Clint's liking. It wasn't exactly the first time he'd had blood drawn or his blood pressure tested, but it was the first time he hadn't been tied down for it. It was also the first time anyone explained what they were doing. Dr. Taylors seemed to have a sixth sense for knowing what made Clint anxious and uncertain. So even as she drew out an unfamiliar object, she explained what it was and how it worked before using it. Was this something all doctors did? Clint couldn't help but wonder. It was very different from his past experiences. Clint fought against his body's instinct to fall asleep, to relax as he followed Dr. Taylors' every move and tried to memorize every item she used and catalogue its use. It was valuable information and he wasn't sure if he would ever get the chance to learn it again. He couldn't risk missing a second of what she said or did.

S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't made much of an impact on Clint, but one thing he could definitely say was that they had far better medical staff. If every doctor was like Dr. Taylors? Clint couldn't imagine why anyone would ever defect from S.H.I.E.L.D. Clint was even more surprised that by the time they finished the physical assessment –which was extremely, alarmingly thorough –it was dawn outside. (Was it really important to know who he had been with and when he had been with them? Half that stuff was restricted and Clint hadn't exactly been first in line for the mission). Dr. Taylors didn't say much even as she led him upstairs, following the safe blue trim before knocking on an office door. Coulson poked his head out, looking perfectly put together except for the slow, sleepy blink he gave them.

"The physical's done now, Agent Coulson," she said warmly, her cheeks turning pink.

What did she even see in the guy? Clint couldn't fathom it. Sure he was an Alpha, but he looked closer to thirty and had a receding hairline. No matter what anyone said, not all Alphas were born big, buff and gorgeous. Much like not all Omegas were born lean, skinny and delicate. Clint was as far from the ideal Omega as Coulson was from the ideal Alpha. Clint found himself hoping that Dr. Taylors had better sense and reason to like Coulson for something more than just biology and a roll of the dice.

"Oh," he said, opening the door wider. "I'll take him down to the range in a few."

Dr. Taylors smiled brightly. "Okay."

Coulson waved Clint in and he had a moment to appreciate the awkward silence that stretched between the two of them. Coulson seemed pretty oblivious and after a second, Dr. Taylors said goodbye and then she was gone. Coulson left his door open and Clint took the chance to examine his office. There was a lot of Captain America paraphernalia –the old type, not the new Steve Rogers Captain America merchandise. This was the classic red-white-and-blue, small antique shields and a lamp. The original Captain America title belonged to the first Alpha soldier who served in America. There were comics and video games and movies about the guy. How he changed the army and other alphabet agencies into accepting Alphas into a workplace that had traditionally been full of Betas. It was all very heroic and inspiring to the Alpha population, as Clint understood it. He'd personally never understood the point of the guy. It'd been about eighty years since the guy died and Clint was surprised to see that Coulson actually had some of his merchandise. There was a nice worn looking couch tucked at the back of the office, a thin sheet spread over it. Maybe Coulson had been catching some shut-eye when they disturbed him.

"It'll be a couple of hours yet before the instructors are in the building," Coulson commented as he walked over to his desk. "I imagine the last forty-eight hours haven't been full of rest. Until you've been cleared, I can only offer you the couch."

In most other situations getting to sleep would have been nearly impossible. But Clint stretched out on the couch warily, his senses on alert and let himself drift off. He woke with a start every time Coulson's chair squeaked, or shifted, which –thankfully –wasn't very often. It was far better than the forty-eight hours he had gone without sleep previous. He had gone without sleep for longer, but it was nice to be able to sleep. The worst part was that he was barely out for more than four hours before Coulson was pushing his chair back and standing up. Clint was off the couch and sitting upright, casually, by the time Coulson had turned to him.

Coulson offered him a wry smile. "The instructors are ready for you now."

Clint followed him downstairs to the familiar sight of a well-equipped gym. There were mats spread out over the floor and there was a man standing in the center. He introduced himself briskly as Call-Me-George, explained what he was looking for and then proceeded to engage Clint in a fight. As Clint grappled with his opponent, he was acutely aware of Coulson observing them. The years of training he'd been put through prevailed as he dodged and countered the instructor's moves fluidly. There had only been a handful of Hydra agents who were superior to Clint in hand-to-hand combat. His training had been left entirely to the Winter Soldier and the Swordsman. (Clint hadn't been the only one sold out).

The S.H.I.E.L.D. instructor was good, but he wasn't anything special. Clint was still tired and aching, too acutely aware of the mistakes he made –his blocks were slower than usual, his punches weaker –and he had been trained how to work through the pain. Either way, it was less than ten minutes before he had the instructor down on the mat.

"Really?" he asked, turning to face Coulson.

Coulson shrugged. "He's just here to assess your skills, Barton. Seems to me we have everything we need. Shooting range next." He didn't bother waiting and was already moving onto the next room, Clint scrambling to catch up to him.

Phil

To say that Barton's skill with a gun was anything less than legendary would do a disservice to the man. Phil was honestly tempted to do so, just to knock Barton's ego down but it was obvious the man had talent and he knew it. Having left him in the psych department's capable hands, Phil returned to his office and pulled up the results he'd received regarding Clinton Francis Barton. The only Omega to have been born in the last twenty years who fit Clint's description.

His parents, Edith and Harold, were hardly the traditional family for someone of Clint's origins. Edith and Harold were both Betas. The chances of them conceiving an Omega were exceptionally low. Indeed, their first son –Charles Barney Barton –was born a Beta as well. Phil winced at the brief notes of many social service workers who acknowledged that there was trouble in the family. Harold's favoritism of Charles, his abuse of his wife and the neglect Clint faced. Apparently the brothers had a good relationship, though. And then Edith and Harold died in a car accident and both brothers vanished. They resurfaced not long after at a foster home. There were records of enrollment in school before they were shuffled to another home and another before finally being shunted into an orphanage.

They were there for barely eight months. Apparently the workers kept trying to separate them, placing them in homes apart from each other in an attempt to find a permanent placement but the brothers would evidently escape and run off together. Clint was six and his brother Charles ten when they finally succeeded because they disappeared. Not one whisper of their names in any legal databank. Eight years later, Charles resurfaced having enrolled himself in college where he proceeded to obtain a GED and start work on a mathematics degree before signing up to join the FBI. Meanwhile Clint appeared to be enrolled in a private academy that was unlisted to protect the identity and confidentiality of their illustrious students, his address showing he was living in an upper class neighborhood under guardianship of Jacques Duquesne and James Barnes. Even more unusual was the fact that there were no records for James Barnes (beyond a birth certificate) and the only records for Duquesne seemed to indicate that he was not suitable for a parental role.

Nothing at all to explain Clint's martial arts or his shooting skills. Natural talent perhaps? Something about it didn't sit right, though. Phil frowned at the records in front of him. Clint was an average student, didn't engage in any extracurricular activities or clubs. Despite that, he was often in trouble with the faculty for starting fights. There were a couple of notations by a nurse about injuries sustained but it was all very high school. Nothing serious or permanent, just enough to warrant the student being sent to the principal and then home with a teacher's note. It didn't explain where Clint had learned new skills or enhanced them over the course of three years. Phil was more than willing to bet Barton had gone easy on his instructor. Assessment supervisors were just there to assess and varied day by day. George wasn't all that special; he was a retired field agent who was known for making solid assessments. He was not the best fighter and Barton had made his derision obvious.

Dr. Taylors had already sent him the preliminary assessment of Barton and it was both good and bad. Like a few of their other agents, she recommended that Barton be added to her primary patient list. It wasn't that uncommon and Phil could probably thank his lucky stars that she was working today. If he were thinking clearly, well rested and energized, he would have considered that possibility on his own. Abused Omegas were a common staple of society, something S.H.I.E.L.D. and a few other organizations were working to change. (There was a volunteer program run in coordination with social services that had volunteer agents helping teach defenseless members of the population self-defense –they weren't exclusive to Omegas but there were some specific classes for Omegas only if requested). Phil used to volunteer with them when he had time enough to eat and sleep every day –now, that was a rare occurrence but they weren't short on volunteers either.

Aside from some physical injuries, all of which were tallied down, Barton was in peak physical form. Nausea flooded Phil as he read about the whipping Barton had evidently received. Phil thought back to the taxi ride, the odd way Barton was behaving as he squirmed around and refused to settle. He'd honestly thought it had more to do with nerves than anything else. Barton didn't look like he was in pain or discomfort. It was a disturbing thought. According to Dr. Taylors' report, Barton was lucky that the interrogator had only been warming up to start asking the tough questions, he would get away without scar tissue. Which led into another note, this one much more detailed than Phil was accustomed to seeing from Dr. Taylors. She liked to keep things brief and to the point.

As the standard physical examination covered everything, she had seen virtually every part of Barton. And documented every scar. She made note of the unusual scarring along the backs of his thighs and lower back, commenting that she wasn't sure what the cause was but that it must have been someone's preferred way to keep Barton under control. As if a kid needed to be kept under control. Phil frowned in displeasure, thinking back to some of Barton's pointed questions about the consequences of failure, the odd way he had suddenly handed the knife to Phil –as though he was placing his life in Phil's hands, there had been an odd weight to that familiar gesture that Phil couldn't quite place. The mystery of Clint Barton would not be one he could unravel overnight. Plus running on two hours of sleep and a few too many cups of coffee wasn't enough to slow him down.

Once Fury caught sight of those shooting scores and the combat ones, he wouldn't care about Barton's psych or physical results. Sheer talent –the kind of talent that Barton possessed wasn't something that could be wasted away. Barton could do wonderful things with his skill. Granted he had the same capacity to do wrong, but S.H.I.E.L.D. would hopefully be able to guide him away from whatever inclinations he might have towards it. He had joined of his own free will. It was always important to acknowledge that strength of character in the more timid or nervous of his students. At any rate, it wouldn't do Barton any harm to hear it.

The sharp ring of his phone jarred Phil from his thoughts. "Coulson."

"Well?" came the distinctly smug voice of Fury.

Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "His scores are shocking in combat and shooting but we're still waiting on his physical and psych status, sir."

"What do we know about him?"

"Clint Barton, twenty years old, Omega. Born in Iowa, raised in New York. There's a period of eight years missing from his file, he has a collection of scars and an ego that will get him in trouble –but he has the skills to back up his claims."

"Will he work well here?" Fury demanded.

"I think he might. He certainly has the skills."

As usual with his boss, Fury hung out without so much as a goodbye or thank you. Though he was certain if the latter ever happened, Phil might die from a heart attack. It set the tone for the rest of the day. At some point, someone must have directed Barton to the barracks where the new recruits spent their time but Phil didn't even have a chance to find that out as he spent the rest of his time trying to figure out Barton's history. It didn't help that each of the assessments came in sporadically. Medical came back clean –no blood or fingerprints had been found at a crime scene, the only drugs Barton was on was a suppressant and –Phil paused at that, rereading the line over.

Not just any over the counter suppressant either but some black-market, knock-off drug that was probably injectable, theorized the doctors. It appeared to be in his system quite strongly which indicated that it wasn't going to be out of his system anytime soon. The concerning aspect of it all was –where would someone like Barton pick up drugs like that? Why was a rich kid from New York living homeless on the streets anyways? It didn't seem like his foster parents had kicked him out but Phil's preliminary searches for kids with similar names to Barton hadn't yielded the answers he was expecting. Social services were swamped; someone could have easily misspelled or misfiled some paperwork that explained how Barton went from vanished to living in a white picket fence home. But so far, no results.

Very odd. Throughout the day, other reports came in. The psych reports were… confusing to say the least and not at all surprising. Barton seemed to have a problem with authority figures, possibly some PTSD or unaddressed trauma that he refused to talk about. Which was not surprising. What was surprising was the form Clint had filled in which was nearly illegible and riddled with spelling and grammar mistakes. The questions had been redacted but the psychologist was having as much trouble reading the answers as Phil was. Maybe his writing and spelling were just terrible? But for an average C student who had attended an _unlisted_ private academy? It was… possible, Phil supposed, staring at the form confusedly.

Phil shut the tab with an exhausted sigh. How was it even possible that Barton was the most complicated recruit ever? What about this didn't make sense? There had to be something off about the whole thing. Sure, Barton's PTSD was unusual –the whole thing with the knife in the taxi was evidence of that. But something about it just didn't sit right…

"Agent Coulson?"

Phil glanced up. "Captain Rogers," he greeted, resisting the urge to stand up and shake his hand. "How can I help you?"

Steve smiled uncomfortably. "You mentioned, earlier, that you would be willing to help me with the others in my program?"

"Of course!"

"You're not too busy?" Steve asked, sitting down slowly. "I don't want to interrupt your work."

"I could use a break," Phil answered honestly. "It's a welcome distraction, Captain."

Steve smiled warmly. "Thank you, Agent Coulson."

"Just give me their names and I'll see what records we have, alright?"

Steve nodded in relief. Thirteen years ago Steve had been recruited for Project Rebirth along with four others. Most everything known about that data had been sealed away –prior to Steve's resurfacing, the most Phil had known about it was that the project went terribly wrong. Steve was the only Alpha they pulled in for the experiment and no one expected him to survive. It was an intense year for all the program members. Steve who received the full-benefits of the serum had been relocated to a secure army base in Washington.

"Their names were Robert Banner, Emil Blonsky and Natalie Rushman. I know what happened to-to the other person."

Phil jotted the names down. "I promise I'll look into them, Captain."

"Thank you, Agent," Steve said, grateful.

"How has the adjustment been going?" Phil asked tactfully.

Steve winced. "Honestly, it could be better. But Sam's been great and Fury's given me some work to do around here."

Phil smiled. It was good to see Steve adjusting so well. Compared to most soldiers back fresh from a war, Steve was doing incredibly well. A lot better than he had been when they'd first found him. Following adulthood, Steve had joined the army.

It all started a year ago, during a routine conflict between some rowdy Alphas holding several high-born Omegas hostage. Steve was called in to diffuse the situation because he was experienced in dealing with them and happened to be the closest aid. Naturally, nothing went according to plan. From the death of Yinsen to Tony Stark's escape, the terrorists were outmatched and disorganized by the time Steve showed up to recover the remaining six hostages. It was the first time the moniker Captain America had been given to him by the media.

Six months ago, Steve and his unit were captured by Hydra and led into the heart of their encampment overseas. Hydra had accumulated several hundred prisoners, from locals to armed officials, originating from various countries. Some of the officials were armed patrol guards trying to preserve the peace before they were kidnapped for that very reason, while others were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. However Hydra had not known about Steve's experiences with the serum –in fact, very few did –and they underestimated him. Steve escaped and proceeded to free every last soul from the factory. The remaining Hydra agents surrendered. It was a huge victory and as a bonus, it turned out that several prisoners had been held hostage as a way for Hydra to use their families' power to keep two nations at war. It was unnecessary and cruel. Following their release, peace settled over the area and Steve Rogers returned to American soil to be crowed a national hero.

In honor of his heroics, he was awarded a Purple Heart. Steve never talked about what happened at the Hydra encampment. His unit members spoke more candidly about the horrors they had heard whispered from fellow prisoners and guards' filthy promises. The few American survivors refused to speak of the trauma, and to the best of Phil's knowledge, both of them were involved in therapy.

Becoming involved with S.H.I.E.L.D. had been as much Phil's idea as it had been Nick's. The army didn't want to risk losing or harming their hero, the soldiers' moral or the media's goodwill. They were easily swayed to send Steve over for a quick interview. Phil had three arguments and two counter arguments prepared to give Steve about why joining S.H.I.E.L.D. was in his best interests, but the captain had simply taken one look around the room. At Fury, Phil and Maria. (They were on-duty instructors at the time, there to help assess Captain Rogers' state of mind, abilities and who he would fit best with –whether it be a handler-asset partnership or a team).

"You protect Omega rights," he had said, as though waiting for one of them to mock or deride him.

"Yes," Fury had replied, an eyebrow arched in puzzlement. Very few people ever cared about the grassroots start of S.H.I.E.L.D. and even fewer knew about it.

Steve had a multitude of questions, about their hiring practices and the wage gap that didn't exist within S.H.I.E.L.D. between Alphas and Omegas. It was a whirlwind of questions that didn't end until Steve had quietly stated that one of his comrades had died –he was an unmarried Omega, never named in the media or discussed. The army had treated him poorly but the Omega had passed all their tests, disguised his orientation until he couldn't any longer when he was held prisoner and had no access to his suppressants.

"He was the only one who didn't make it out," Steve had explained, "and I won't let that happen again. I won't see Omegas being forgotten. If you guarantee me that and access to information regarding Project Rebirth, I'll gladly sign on."

S.H.I.E.L.D. joyfully embraced Captain America, destroyer of Hydra, into their ranks.


End file.
